Pretty Girls On Instagram Are Making Me Feel Bad
Am I acting paranoid or has there been a recent surge in the number of pretty girls on Instagram? Like, the sheer volume of aesthetically pleasing young women on social media right now is Blowing. My. Mind.
I actually considered referring to them exclusively as “pretty girls” for the duration of this article simply for the purpose of not attaching any more weight to them than I already had. I didn’t want them to occupy any more headspace. But that would have been obsolete because they’re already making me feel bad. Pretty girls on Instagram are making me feel bad.
And whether or not you agree with my observation – that there are currently more of this breed online – I know that you know exactly who I’m talking about. The girls with necks as long as arms and legs as long as the average human body. The ones with noses that look like miniature ski slopes and Disney Princess hair that shines with the intensity of a thousand suns. The ones with abnormally long eyelashes and a torso that says I do pilates four times a week but I’m also genetically blessed.
I want to make it clear that I have nothing against these girls or their perfectly symmetrical faces, nor do I think being attractive is something we should actively strive towards. They’re just getting me down, you know? Because when you’ve built a business, like I have, on a social media platform that promotes “image-sharing” it’s hard to not compare those images from time to time.
And that’s where I now find myself, conflicted. Am I a “bad feminist” because instead of celebrating the attractiveness of these girls I’m playing victim to it? Resenting them for it? Attempting to turn my attention away from them while also complaining about them in this very article?
Or is it just the nature of women that if we are repeatedly exposed to people that look a certain way, then naturally over time we will take stock of the physical traits we have that don’t fit that description: The hormonal pimple on my chin that has recently suggested it’s going to leave a pink scar. The cellulite on my legs that I’ve spent so much time with over the last decade that I could locate every dimple with my eyes closed. That little pillow under my chin that I subconsciously hold with my hand when I’m talking to someone, as if to check it’s still there.
The good news is that despite this recent analysis of my Instagram feed I remain fond of these less-fortunate traits, because they simultaneously keep my ego in check on days where I’ve received too many compliments, and as a reminder that for all the reasons it would be a sweet, sweet existence to look like a walking advertisement for FaceTune™ it would never quite feel like home.